


typical fucking aces hockey

by sweetpiquillo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon-Typical Homophobia, Drinking, Gen, Kent Goes To Therapy, Recreational Drug Use, This is a love story but it's about found families and finding a home, gwen stefani voice oooo that's my shit that's my shit, oh yeah also he's cuban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24268039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetpiquillo/pseuds/sweetpiquillo
Summary: Kent goes to therapy and adopts a rookie.Or:“He could have followed them out, probably should have followed them out, but is held back by the fear that he'd be fucking up the one thing that hasn't gone wrong in his life.So, he wins the Calder, and wins the Cup, and clears out the Aces’ record book and makes millions and stays.After all, he has a legacy to build, doesn’t he?”
Comments: 19
Kudos: 129





	typical fucking aces hockey

**Author's Note:**

> whew. i’ve been trying to make a parse fic work for months and this!! might just be it. written entirely in a 48 hour span of creative fever because i felt like i would combust if i didn’t get all of this out on (metaphorical) paper immediately.
> 
> technically canon-compliant if you don’t look too hard? in my head, all of this takes place before and during Bitty’s senior year, so 2016-2017 in the check please universe. 
> 
> also, kent’s cuban in this one.
> 
> 5/23/20: small grammar edits, also fixing a hockey accuracy detail.
> 
> i have marginal at best knowledge of professional men’s hockey and all related logistical, temporal, and/or administrative issues. i apologize for any discrepancies.
> 
> much love and a million thanks to ngozi ukazu for creating this world and these characters.
> 
> enjoy!

He should've known. He should've listened to that gut feeling that turned over when he found out that the Aces' PR manager was replaced on an average of every six months. He should’ve walked out the moment a teammate spat Jack’s name at him like it was something to be ashamed of. He should've catalogued every glare, check, and homophobic taunt, brought it all to his lawyer, and flew out from Vegas as soon as possible. He should’ve said something, done something, stood up or spoken up - _anything_.

But he was eighteen, and sad, and alone, desperate to please, desperate to _win_ , so he kept his head down and let time pass. 

So here he was, seven years later, _captain_ , and he still couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't belong on his own fucking team.

There had been a few exceptions. First, Georgia, who saved his life his rookie year, having him over for dinner almost on a weekly basis and cooking Cuban food that reminded him of home. Until she came out and transitioned, was quietly let go from the team, and flew out for a better offer in Providence. Then, Zavier, who had actually gotten up in Carl's face for a sideways comment shot at Kent during a scrimmage, and took the subsequent black eye with a smirk. Until he was traded to Philly a month later, and hadn't called since. 

He could have followed them out, probably _should_ have followed them out, but is held back by the fear that he'd be fucking up the one thing that hasn't gone wrong in his life.

So, he wins the Calder, and gets the C, and wins the Cup, and clears out the Aces’ record book and makes millions and _stays_.

After all, he has a legacy to build, doesn’t he?

\- but of course some foolish, small part of him still thought that he could build that legacy with Jack, because suddenly he's backed up against the well of a frat house in Massachusetts, the last strands of hope being ripped from his chest, when he realizes that - no. That Jack, that _this_ was never something that he should have hoped for.

That he is best off being content with what he has already - he's the face of the team, the golden boy, already a performer, and it's almost too easy to slip on that second skin.

So, he assimilates into the team. Keeps his head down. Drinks with Rafael after particularly bad losses. Buys his own home in East Las Vegas, plays pick-up games of soccer at the community center on his days off, and flies home to New York in the summers. Trying to carve out some piece of happiness for himself.

Starts going to therapy.

Tells himself that everything’s okay so often that he starts to believe it.

But then _Zimms_ goes and wins the Cup and kisses his fucking boyfriend on national television, and he's watching it all happen from Rafael’s phone screen in a sticky, sweaty, seedy bar, his elbows stuck to the wood by spilled beer and shock. 

For a moment, the happiness captured and unreachable on that small, glowing screen lights a long-slumbering anger within him, and his fingers shake where they’re holding onto his phone, and he’s got one foot on the floor, ready to stand up, and -

Carl's laugh grates against his ears and -

Well, Kent can't really be mad.

He should've known.

\---

He sinks, slightly uncomfortably, like always, into the dark red couch in Nadine's office. 

The late afternoon sun makes the palm tree outside her window gleam golden, leaves rustling in the wind. 

He notices all of this because he's looking away - avoiding eye contact like he instinctually does when she asks him something, and even _thinking_ about saying the answer feels like he's digging his nails in and clawing something out of his chest.

A bird chirps happily, hopping off one of the palm branches and flying carefree into the sunset.

He doesn't go home that summer.

\---

Andrew Wang is an upstart, eighteen year old firecracker of a rookie forward from Miami, Florida (yes, _Florida_ ) who's drafted by the Aces at an impressively early slot, and whose record from the Q is already garnering comparisons to a certain Kent Parson.

All of this is relayed to Kent over phone at the shining hour of five AM by what sounds like a very stressed and recently-hired administrative assistant. 

Also, management apparently wants him to house the kid for his rookie year?

Kent almost agrees off the bat just so he can go back to sleep, but realizes that he should probably meet the kid and gauge the risk of his house being destroyed before giving him free range of the guest room. 

He takes the Subaru and gets to the rink early, just to be immediately shooed into Haynes' office.

He's trying to get comfortable in the chair parked in front of Haynes' desk (the armrests are too high) when Haynes fixes him with his perpetual, toothy smile. It's false - not even coming close to his eyes. 

"Parson."

 _Well, good morning to you, too._ Kent puts on his press smile. "What's up, Coach?"

Haynes leans back in his chair. "Colin brought you up to speed on the rookie situation?"

"It's a... _situation_?"

Haynes laughs, dryly. "Kid's a rocket on the ice, but if the rumors are true, he's got an attitude to match. He flew in last night, and he needs housing. But, none of your men want to step up and take him in, so-"

"So it's down to me."

Haynes pushes down his glasses, still with that empty smile, looking at Kent like he's trying to cut a line straight through him.

"Well. _You're_ the captain." 

He pauses and purses his lips, like he wants to say more, but pushes his glasses back instead, turning back to his laptop, dropping the smile, clearly saying _we’re finished here._.

There's a knock on the door, and the assistant, Colin, pokes his head in. "Andrew's here."

Kent walks out to the lobby and almost laughs when he sees him, slouched sideways in a chair - the kid's the quintessential embodiment of teenage angst, a lanky teenager with his baseball hat pulled low over his eyes _and_ a teal hoodie shoved up to his ears. Even from across the room, Kent can spot his residual anger. It seeps into everything he does: his defiantly crossed arms, one leg deliberately draped over the armrest of the chair next to him, the way he's pointedly making eye contact with the carpet instead of with Kent - it's a masterclass in body language screaming _don't fuck with me._

Kent stands in front of him for a few moments, copying his defiantly crossed arms. He bends down slightly to get a better look at what the kid's wearing, to confirm his suspicions.

"Is that…a _Sharks_ hoodie?” Kent’s half saying it to the assistant, who shrugs as if to say _not my problem_ . Kent turns back to the kid, tone incredulous. “Our _rivals_?"

Andrew slowly unfolds himself from his slouch, locks eyes with Kent, and _sneers_.

"Good morning to you too, _asshole_." He leans back and looks away. "My sister’s a fan."

Kent raises his eyebrows in slight shock, and almost turns on his heel to walk out of the building right then and there, but something in Andrew's eyes stops him.

There’s a glint there. A stubborn burning, like the last ember of a campfire, and Kent's intrigued. 

Maybe a bit nostalgic.

So he smiles for real, adjusts his snapback, and turns back to the assistant.

"Yeah, I'll take him in."

—-

Twenty minutes on the road to his house, and Kent is starting to think he might've made a mistake. First off, Andrew - Andy is like four inches taller than him, which is just irritating, and, more importantly - hasn't said a word the entire time, and the awkward silence is starting to throw Kent off his rhythm. 

He imagines Nadine in the backseat and tries to give himself a mental pep talk. Tries to remember how a good captain is supposed to act, and it's concerning that he has to consciously think about that - he's never had a problem putting on the right appearances before. But something about this rookie is throwing him off his rhythm, and it's embarrassing, frankly. 

Andy interrupts his thoughts. "Are you going to play some music, or do you always drive in silence and stare straight ahead like a fucking robot?" 

Kent’s stunned for a second, then shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. "Don't really care.” It's a lie, but he's trying to be gracious. He nods towards the control panel. “You can connect, if you want."

Andy slouches back down and turns to look out the window.

Kent gives him another chance. “Sure? Otherwise, it’s my choice.”

Andy gives a noncommittal shrug.

Kent raises his eyebrows. "Okay, rookie, you asked for it." At a stoplight, he presses play on his driving mix and cranks up the volume.

"...What the fuck. Is this."

Kent switches lanes. "Britney."

Andy turns to look at him for a moment, expression unreadable, before folding himself back into his slouch.

"...Baby One More Time" take them the rest of the way home.

—-

Kent pulls into his driveway and feels something light in his chest when he sees Andy gaping around the neighborhood, eyes wide. Kent lets him be, climbs out of the car and pops the trunk to start hauling out suitcases, gazing around the familiar street, reveling in the strange exercise of trying to see a place through new eyes. 

His neighborhood's all squat concrete houses, mostly one story, nothing like the McMansions on the south side of the city that most of his teammates shell out for. Kent figures, it's just him and Kit, how much space does he need? He's got his car, a couple nice watches, and a small in-ground pool he splurged on after his first Vegas summer, and the rest of his paycheck goes home to his mom or to nonprofits in the city. 

When Andy comes around to help Kent with his luggage, he seems quietly impressed, the outer layer of pure, undiluted rage gone, face a spread of neutral indifference rather than outright hatred.

"Nice neighborhood." He pauses and looks down, kicking a rock. "Reminds me of home."

A small crack in the facade.

"Thanks." Kent feels a small thrill of victory.

He shows Andy the security code to enter the front door and the rack next to the welcome mat. "Shoes off."

Of course, Andy's bite is back as soon as he catches a glimpse of Kent's living room. "Hah. I see you're single-handedly keeping IKEA in business."

Kent doesn't even know how to chirp him back because yeah, he did undertake a massive IKEA haul after the Kit Incident, so. Andy's not wrong.

Andy nods his chin towards the window. "What's all that shit for?"

 _Now,_ Kent's slightly affronted. The hybrid scratching post/nap spot/climbing area for Kit that he had painstakingly assembled and strategically placed to receive the highest average amount of sunlight during the day was the pride and joy of his entire house. If you asked Kent, it's the best thing he's ever constructed with his two hands. If you asked Rafael, who helped (read: bitched) the entire time, it's an abomination and monstrosity upon the world that should never have left the original drunken sketch on a napkin to see the light of day.

He's itching to launch into the full saga, but holds himself back. Reminds himself be chill. "Oh, that's for Kit. She should be-"

Suddenly, Andy's interested. "You have a cat?"

As if on cue, Kit pops out from the hallway and pads into the living room. She makes a beeline to Kent for head scratches, before curiously turning towards Andy.

And if Andy's facade had slightly cracked before, it was now blown wide open. 

Within seconds, everything he had been carrying is dropped to the floor and he's sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands deep in Kit's fur, who's _loving_ this new source of attention. To Kent's astonishment, Andy's babbling and cooing to Kit in a manner that Kent had only previously witnessed from himself at small lonely hours of the morning. 

And suddenly Kent's looking at a familiar sight - a scared and angry rookie far from home, in his socks and snuggling with a cat.

The hum of the ceiling fan accompanies Kit's contented purring.

\---

They meet the two other rookies. As a captain should, Kent invites them over, like he does with each year's batch of new players, for food and video games at his house. He also sends invites to Rafael and a few other guys that he knows will go easy on the hazing.

Mikhail Vasiliev is from Russia, short for a defenseman, but still taller than Kent, and fools everyone with his sweet smile and polite English until Andy hands him a controller and he's cussing like a veteran player.

Elijah Campbell is from Ohio, 6'4", has tattoos from his wrist to his neck, seems to be genuinely amused at Andy's attempts at antagonizing him, and parks himself next to Mikhail on the couch with a bowl of Takis and a self-satisfied smile. Kit parks herself right next to him, purring contentedly.

Kent watches them from the kitchen, half-heartedly sipping a beer. Rafael slides in next to him. 

"What's on your mind, KP?"

"Nothing." Kent follows Rafael’s gaze to where Andy and Mikhail are wrestling each other over a controller.

"Time, maybe.”

From the living room, a bowl flies up and Takis rain down over the scuffle.

Kent sighs. "...and the fact that I shouldn't have let you talk me into buying a white couch."

Rafael laughs. "Cheers to that." He clinks his bottle against Kent's, and they drink.

—-

Kent takes Andy to the nearest 99 Ranch to stock up on food, remembering Georgia and the comfort of familiar flavors.

They go down aisle by aisle, and Andy, although hesitant at first, starts quickly filling up the cart, loosening up, glimpses of happiness flashing on his face when he spots his favorite foods, even more when it's on sale. Kent's following slightly behind, contented with the music from the speakers overhead and the squeaking of the cart wheels, until he remembers that he should probably be talking. He tries to think of what good captains say to make rookies feel welcome.

“So, uh. Now that we've been, you can drive here whenever you need to restock.”

Andy shrugs and lifts an entire case of dried seaweed into the cart. 

“Can’t drive.”

Kent stops in the middle of the aisle. “What, you’re eighteen and you don’t have your license?”

Andy shrugs defensively. “Never needed one.”

Kent thinks for a moment about what good captains say to avoid being the personal chauffeur for their rookie houseguest. “Want to learn?”

Andy lights up, face mischievous. “On the Ferrari?”

“Yeah, nice try.” Kent throws a bag of wasabi peas into the cart. “For me,” he says when Andy makes a face.

“I’m serious. I could teach you on the Subaru-“

Andy makes another face.

“-and once you get your license, sure, take the Ferrari to fucking 99 Ranch.”

Andy grins. “Sweet.” Kent can already see the wheels turning in his head, wonders if he's made a mistake.

“So you're gonna put those wasabi peas back on the shelf when I’m standing right behind you, huh?”

—-

Since the Q, Kent's always sat alone on roadies. For concentration. Always third row from the front, in the right side window seat - napping, listening to music, reviewing plays - no one else sits in his row. He'll be social on camera, in the locker room when he needs to, but on the road, he's alone. It's tradition.

Until Andy comes along.

It's not a real roadie, just a team-bonding trip up, hiking in the mountains, and maybe that's why Kent lets it slide when Andy plops down into the seat next to him. Mikhail and Elijah are right behind him, tumbling into the seats across the aisle. When Rafael boards the bus and sees the full row, he gives Kent a Look, like _are you gonna do anything about that?_ Kent just shrugs and slides on his headphones.

His peace is quickly interrupted.

"Yo. Rookie." 

Kent looks up to see Sevens staring down Mikhail.

Sevens elbows the guy behind him and sneers. "It's a day trip to the fucking mountains, bro. What's up with the, uh, _pink_ duffel?"

Kent's half-ready to step in with a joke and a deflection, but before he can even open his mouth, Mikhail plows forward, _lighting up_. "We bought snacks for everyone!" 

Sevens is scrambling for a retort. Kent fully pulls off his headphones. “ _We_?"

Elijah leans across the aisle and tosses a tied-off plastic WinCo bag into his lap. "Yeah, thanks for letting us use the Ferrari, Cap." He and Mikhail start pulling out bags and passing them out to the rest of the team.

Sevens takes the bag that Mikhail hands him with a bewildered expression and pushes past them to his seat.

Kent turns towards Andy, who gives a defiant shrug. "Not my fault you carpool to meetings and keep the keys by the door like a sucker. And Elijah has _his_ license, so technically…”

Elijah chimes in. "And we bought you extra."

"I...thanks." Kent's staring at the bag in his lap, not sure how to react in a captainly manner. "Use the reusable bags in the pantry next time?"

"Okay." Andy shrugs again and leans over to peek into Kent’s bag. "Once you open that, can I have one of your fruit snacks?"

The rookies spend the rest of the trip playing video games together, and none of them bother Kent as he's brainstorming preseason warm-ups, and well,

It's kind of nice to not sit alone.

\---

Although Andy gets along with the rookies like a house on fire (and Kent is kind of worried that they _will_ end up burning _his_ house down eventually), the feeling isn't universal. A few practices in, Kent's pulled back into Haynes' office, post-scrimmage.

Haynes has his hands folded solemnly, leaning over his desk, same empty smile as always."I thought you might want to know that there have been some concerns raised about Wang's attitude on the ice. By _your_ teammates."

"And they couldn't come directly to me?" Kent's sweaty, sore, pissed-off, and his tone bites more than it should. "I mean, every rookie needs time to adjust."

"There are worries about how he'll fit into the team...atmosphere, even _with_ time. And, as for me having to be the middleman in all this." Haynes looks down his glasses at Kent, fluorescent lights casting a stark shadow over his smile. 

"I'd say that says more about your presence as a captain than anything else."

Kent fights to keep his expression neutral.

Haynes looks at him for a second longer, expression unwavering. "Talk to him, Parson," and then he's waving Kent out of the room.

\---

Andy is unreceptive.

"What, the guy says... _that_ to me during scrimmage and I'm _not_ supposed to cuss him out?"

\---

Nadine's office. 

There are fifty-six flowers in the painting behind her desk. He shifts on the couch, and the sun peeks through the blinds at exactly the angle to blind him before he can count any more.

\---

Carpooling chirps regardless, Kent and Andy drive together to and from every practice and home game.

Sticks chirps him the locker room: “Everyone knows that Parser runs an _eco-friendly_ household, rookie.”

Kent hits him with a spare glove to the chest, grinning. “Shut the fuck up.”

So after about a month, Andy is fully educated on Britney Spears’ greatest hits, and being systematically worked through the rest of her discography. 

Kent, for his part, is treated to whatever the roulette wheel of Andy’s Spotify Discover Weekly playlist has to offer. 

Andy says Kent’s being cultured. Kent maintains that he’s suffering daily brain damage.

He lets Mikhail and Elijah badger their way into a ride home after practice one night, and they almost fly off the freeway when Elijah puts on Carly Rae Jepson.

Andy asks permission and the rookies take the Ferrari to Walmart (Elijah drives) and they come to practice with an armful of Bluetooth speakers. All of a sudden, it's their first game, and half the guys in the locker room are singing along to Celine Dion.

Andy lives up to the hype, scoring the first goal of the season, and management drops concerns about his attitude problem when the Aces Instagram gains 100k in a week.

—-

ESPN’s on in the living room, the rookies all spending the night, again, and they’re all sprawled over each other on Kent’s couch. He’s stretched out on the floor, petting a very appreciative Kit.

The commercial break ends, cutting back to the two analysts, and the rookies stop shoving each other to listen.

“...and I don’t want to say anything prematurely, John, but I do think this streak of early wins could be very promising for the Aces-“

“Good news after an arguable slump last season-“

“BULLSHIT!!” Andy shouts from the couch, mouth half-full.

“...well, also, we have to keep in mind the team we're talking about when we start looking at long-term trends,"

"-exactly, and considering how they stack up against the rest of the League."

"I mean, we're talking about a roster with the track records of Kent Parson and Rafael Diaz-“

“YO, THAT'S OUR FUCKING CAPTAIN-“

“SCRAPS!! MY FUCKING KING!!”

The announcers are temporarily drowned out by assorted curses and flying popcorn. Kit scurries away, seeking shelter.

“...but like I said, from what we’ve seen so far this season, I’d say there’s definitely an spark on this team-“

"-just from their performance in these early games, when many teams are having a rocky start-

“-especially with three promising rookies, and that beautiful, season-opening goal, by Andrew-“

And the TV speakers are fully overwhelmed by the roaring from the couch, loud and violent enough that Kent starts to worry about noise complaints from the neighbors and possible damage to the lamp hanging from the living room ceiling. 

But for the first time in a while, he feels like a good captain.

—-

A month and a half in, they have a brutal loss, three players injured - and it's a _home game_. It's fucking exhausting.

These many years in, Kent's practiced at the art of turning the mood after the loss, even a tough one, with a speech, a smile, a promise to _get it next time_ , but his words are stuttered and weak, this time, losing their weight every time his eye catches Andy, slumped over in the corner.

Of the players injured, he got the worst of it, leaning against Elijah with a hefty ice pack on his leg, his mop of hair blocking his face. In the post-game rush, Kent hadn't gotten a chance to check up on him, and the worry pulsing in the back of his mind is pushing anything else useful out of it. And it shows.

"...so. Uh. Rest up. We fought hard."

There's no conviction in his words. He's forcing himself to keep his head up, but looking around the locker room, everyone else has stances similar to Andy's - avoiding eye contact, heads low, messing with their gear, wilted. Beat.

As the noise in the locker room returns, desperate to get _something_ right, Kent hurries over to see Andy - he'll be fine, more tired than anything, which lifts a weight off of Kent's shoulders.

He stays until everyone's gone - it's his trademark: first on the ice, last to leave. Still feeling like he's just playing at the part of the competent captain, he gives fist bumps and sympathetic pats on the back as everyone walks out of the locker room until it's just him, Andy, and Carl packing up.

Carl skips the fist bump and snarls a comment under his breath as he walks out, nothing Kent hasn't heard before, but it still stings. When Carl leaves, he slams the door, but the words remain in the room, sliding under Kent's skin and settling there.

Kent's hands are shaking.

What hurts the most is when he looks to his left and sees Andy, having witnessed it all, eyes wide, his face holding more pain than when he had gotten checked on the ice - raw and honest in a way that Kent almost envies.

Frozen, humiliated, _weak,_ Kent can't think of anything meaningful to say, and after an agonizing silence, Andy turns away.

They drive home in silence, no sound but the cars flying past them on the freeway, and it feels twisted, wrong. Kent looks over, trying to throw out a rope, but Andy is slouched down and shoved up against the side of the car, as far away as possible, his back entirely to Kent, staring pointedly out the window, headphones in.

His shoulders are heaving up and down, stuttered and shaking.

_Shit._

Kent parks in silence. He turns the engine off and pauses, lets the quiet and darkness sit for a moment. Andy’s stopped crying. Kent opens his door and swings out a leg to get out, but stills when he hears rustling from the passenger side.

Eyes shadowed, Andy mumbles. "You're the fucking captain and _you_ still let them say that shit to you?"

His voice cracks, and it hits Kent like a full slam into the boards. 

He doesn't have an answer.

\---

Hours later, and Kent's tossing and turning uselessly in his bed, so he gets up and goes to Rafe’s.

Kicking off his shoes by the door, habit, not even bothering to flick the light on, he makes his way towards the kitchen.

Rafael “Scraps” Diaz is the Las Vegas Aces’ starting goalie for five years running. Off his paycheck, he lives in a high-rise apartment close enough to The Strip for the lights of the Paris to be in his peripheral vision when he sits down for dinner.

He’s lived in the same apartment for six years, but it’s still as bare-bones as it was the day he moved in, sprawling and empty. The only visible investment he has is his custom-built bar and liquor cabinet, gold and amber shimmering against a drab background of blues and grays, lit up by the lights of the Strip shining in through his floor to ceiling windows that span an entire wall.

It’s a fantastic view.

He's already there waiting for Kent, sitting on a raised stool, already half into a bottle, and Kent slides into the stool next to him, wordlessly, gazing with him out over the glittering streets.

A few drinks in and they’re loose enough to talk, and, already beaten down by the loss, loop around to the same old complaints.

"...I mean, _fuck_ , Rafe, I can't remember the last time 'fairy' got thrown at me, but I guess he's single-handedly trying to revive it."

Rafael laughs. "Points for nostalgia value?"

"Oh, naturally. Totally worth the penalty box."

"That was a nasty check you got in, too."

"Hah. Thanks."

It's late enough to be considered early. Night bleeds into morning and the perpetual city lights make it hard to gauge the time.

"How are things going with that, uh," Kent waves his hand uselessly. "The guy from the…"

"Ty?" Rafael takes a long drink. "Oh, you know, he wanted to settle down, I…"

"Wasn't ready to retire and live the rest of your life as a hermit from society?"

Rafael gives a low chuckle. "Yeah. That's it."

"Fucking sucks, man."

"It's fucking unfair."

"Life's fucking unfair."

"Hockey's fucking unfair."

"Shit, I'll drink to _that_."

"..."

"You hear Nasher got traded?"

"Shit...after that stunt he pulled in New York? He had it fucking coming."

"Still."

"Yeah."

They’ve been drinking and talking for hours, when the sky starts shifting into a dark blue, intermittent birdsong growing more frequent, even this deep into the city. They're passing a joint back and forth, now, and Kent's mouth is dry.

"Hey, what about, uh…” Rafael gestures with the joint. “Fuckin’ uh, Zimmerman?"

Kent leans over and takes it. "...Yeah?"

Rafael pauses. "Think there's something there?"

"I mean." Kent thinks of shaking hands, and looks away. "You were there. You heard it all." 

He lets his eyes drift closed, blowing out tendrils of smoke into the dark apartment.

"Maybe for them, not for us, right?” Rafael's fingers brush against his when he passes the joint..

Kent laughs into a cough. 

"Yeah. Not for us."

"..."

Rafael’s rolling another joint when he asks, offhand. "What about the rookie?"

Kent bristles, suddenly and subconsciously defensive. "What about him?"

\---

Andy scores the winning goal against the Kings, tying off a five-game winning streak, and the morning after the wild team celebration, Kent wakes him up early to get celebratory boba, three blocks down from the hotel, before they leave LA.

As they step out into the morning sunshine, Kent tosses a pair of sunglasses to Andy. "Just in case."

Andy rolls his eyes but puts them on anyways. With his new designer sneakers and a fresh haircut, he already looks the part of the Aces' next star player, his appearance catching up to his performance on the ice. He's still cold towards Kent, but he's tempered at the moment, riding the high of their win, and the expectation of milk tea.

"...so, I asked Sticks and he gave his approval, so I promise this place is good."

Andy scoffs but there's no malice behind it. "Sticks only ever orders his boba with blended ice. He wouldn't know good boba if he was drowning in it."

Kent rolls his eyes, endeared. "Sure."

A little bell above the door jingles when Kent pushes it open, and he's grateful to see that the store is empty save for the employees, the rest of the city still waking up. There's a slight chill inside, and muted music playing softly from the speakers overhead.

A college kid is at the register, UCLA visor pushing back locs pulled into a loose bun. Ringing up Kent with a yawn, he lights up with a genuine smile when he sees Andy.

"Hey, how's it going?"

"Not bad.” Andy takes off the sunglasses, tucking them into his collar, and suddenly, he's matching the kid's happy expression. “Nice shirt, by the way." 

The cashier’s smile stretches even wider. "Oh, word, you're a Gorillaz fan, too?"

"Yeah, since fucking _forever_." 

The cashier, whose introduces himself as Damien, rings up Andy's order, and they keep talking even while Damien's making his drink.

"...yeah, so I might do grad school? But I'm only a freshman, and all I know at this point is I really like math."

Andy leans on the glass. "And making boba?"

Damien laughs. "Well, more like making money. And...getting to meet people."

Andy ducks his head down and actually _smiles_.

Damien's grin stretches wider, and he hands Andy his drink and a straw. "You from LA?"

"Nah, just visiting."

"What brings you here?"

Suddenly, Andy’s a deer in headlights. "I...well…"

"Shit, sorry, that’s personal, I know."

"No, it's…" 

And, Kent looks closer - is Andy... _blushing?_

"Um. Personal's okay."

It’s Damien’s turn to duck his head, flustered. "Hey, thanks for coming in, and if you happen to come by LA again," 

He scribbles something down on the back of Andy's receipt and hands it to him, and Kent feels something soft in his chest when he sees that both of their hands are slightly shaking. 

"Um. Feel free to give me a call?”

And despite everything, Andy turns around, like it's something instinctual and looks at _Kent_ with an unspoken question on his face, expression open and trusting and vulnerable.

In that space, suspended in time, Kent suddenly feels very young, and very old, and something's prickling just underneath his skin, and oh.

_Oh._

Kent quickly scrambles his facial features into some sort of encouraging nod, fitting of a captain, and then Andy is grinning, and Damien is beaming, and Kent feels a smile pull at the corners of his lips, too.

When they leave the shop, Andy turns to look at Damien one last time and knocks his shoulder against the doorframe, almost spilling his drink, and his face fully flushes red. Kent doesn't push the subject, and Andy doesn't say much on the walk back to the hotel, but Kent can see him turning the receipt over and over in his hand..

They’re waiting to cross the last street before their hotel’s block, and Kent nudges Andy, vibrating with excitement but trying to keep his expression neutral. “Hey. You should call him. He’s sweet.”

Andy shrugs, but it’s to hide his smile.

Back in Vegas, once Andy is turned in for the night, Kent goes into the backyard, climbing into one of the hammocks. The weather’s turned fully, now, although the chill of the desert wind is nothing compared to a New York winter, and Kent looks up at the stars and calls his mom and they talk for a long time. 

\---

A few weeks later, home from a long roadie, Kent slips the topic into casual conversation as he and Andy make dinner together.

“So...have you called, um…”

“Damien?” Andy gives a happy shrug. “Yeah, we’ve been texting for like, a week now.” He tosses garlic into the saucepan. “Mickey thinks he’s cute. Bells says I can do better, but he got rejected from UCLA, so I think he’s biased.”

Kent grabs an onion, making a valiant effort to keep his composure. “Nice.”

“Yeah.” 

The chop and sautee in an amicable silence

“Hey.” Andy’s voice breaks the hiss of the stovetop, a shade softer. “Thanks for having my back.”

“Of course.” Kent pointedly focuses on the onion he’s cutting up. “...I’m sorry for not always setting the best example.”

“Bullshit.” Kent looks over, startled, and Andy’s head is tilted to the side, eyes meeting his with a steady, honest gaze. “I get it. We deal with assholes in our own way. If it counts-“ and Andy turns away, but it’s to hide his smile. “I’m glad you’re my captain.” 

—-

It's cold enough to wear his old sweaters outside and in Nadine's office, Kent lets himself cry for real.

The pain of it feels like he's peeling the skin off his bones and turning himself inside out, but it's worth it. 

Afterwards, he gives Georgia a call.

\---

Kent goes to Rafael's for a drink and a recruitment.

They’re side by side on Rafael’s couch, barely a glass in when Kent brings it up. 

"I’ve been talking to Georgia."

"What for?” Rafael laughs. He's in a good mood. “You're not leaving my ass here and jetting off to Providence, are you?"

"You know I could _never."_

"Then what?"

Kent lets the moment sit. "I'm gonna come out."

Rafael coughs on his drink. 

"Don't fuck with me, Parson." His voice is dark.

Kent's eyebrows lift, slightly. "I'm serious. The kids need us."

There’s a long silence.

Rafael sighs, like he’s already accepted whatever Kent’s going to say. "So. What did the rookie do?"

And Kent can’t help himself from cracking, and smiling.

“Okay, so we're in LA, right? So we go to this boba shop, and he starts talking - and _flirting_ \- with this college guy, and - you should've seen their faces, man. Andy looked so... _happy._ It's like..."

Kent pauses, searching for the words. 

“It's like - I forgot what hope looked like until I saw them. I forgot that this shit doesn’t need to be permanent,"

His tone is growing, heated.

"...I forgot how much we could fucking _change_.”

Rafael is looking at him like Kent’s about to step into five lanes of moving traffic.

He take a breath and continues on, regardless. 

“Rafe, I’m tired of sitting up here and licking our wounds every other week like we can’t do anything about the shit that goes on in _our_ fucking team. I’m tired of thinking that our only options are leaving everything behind or keeping our heads down and still getting hurt. I'm fucking _tired_ of it, and I know that you are too. I see these rookies, standing their ground without a second thought, and I think - that could be us. That's what this team could be. We _made_ this team what it is, for better and for worse, and we’ve sacrificed so much of our lives and who we _are_ for the sake of the fucking _game_ \- we have the right to ask for some fucking _respect_ in return.”

Kent’s breathing hard, hand gripped so tight around his glass he’s afraid it’ll crack. There’s so much adrenaline coursing through him - like it's third period and he’s just come off the ice. Worst of all, the bottom's dropped out of his stomach because Rafael’s face is turned away from him and he can’t read his expression.

"...Rafe?"

And he realizes that Rafael’s crying. Hard.

And he realizes that he’s never seen Rafael cry before.

Rafael wipes his face, eyes red. 

"Shit, man. That’s…” He takes a shaky breath “There's the KP I've been missing." 

Rafael takes a long drink, and sets his face, and it’s an expression that Kent’s only seen before fourth quarters with a tied score and the playoffs at stake. 

" _Fine_.” Rafael throws up his hands, over-dramatic. “I'll come out with you."

Kent almost drops his glass. "What? Wait, Rafe, I never-"

"Oh, like you _weren't_ going to ask." Rafael laughs. "Or what,” And an old spark creeps into his voice that Kent hasn’t heard in years. “You afraid that I'll one-up you?"

"Please." Kent rolls his eyes. "You might think you’re the diva of this team, but I'll do _anything_ for the sake of attention, and you know it."

" _Wow._ ” Rafael gives Kent a friendly shove, elbow digging into his side. “Our captain is _so_ brave." 

Kent shoves him back for good measure “Fuck. _Off._ ”

And they're wrestling again like they're rookies, drinks forgotten on the coffee table, messing up each other's hair, laughing.

Rafael holds his hands up to catch his breath. "But yeah, so when are we coming out?"

"You're serious?"

"Deadly."

"Really." Kent still can't believe it - can't believe the smile on Rafael's face. "After all the hours we spent talking about how things will never change, and the League is stuck in their ways, and our careers would be over - "

"KP, you know I hate to admit it, but you're right. We made this team. Let's fucking _do_ something with that power. Build a fucking _legacy_."

Rafael's smile sharpens into something harder, and Kent feels a fire ignite in his chest.

\---

It’s after the ceremony, 11 at night but still 90 out, even with a Vegas desert wind, and Kent and Andy go for a drive.

Andy’s driving the Ferrari down North Hollywood Boulevard, top down, the lights of the city sprawled out before them. It's the perfect view from the passenger side, where Kent’s sprawled out, his arm stretched out, catching the air with his open palm..

In the space between Britney songs, Andy turns to Kent with a shit-eating grin, steering the car with one careless, practiced hand.

“So. How many of the other Calder winners do you think are gay? Like, if we made a groupchat, would it be just enough people to be functional, or would it be too bloated, and like, nobody would ever use it?”

Kent can’t even be mad. He reaches over to ruffle Andy's hair. “You know what I really admire about your performance as a rookie? Your humility. Very inspiring.”

“What can I say, I learned from the best.” Andy lets out a laugh and swats him away with his free hand. “And you’re just chirping me because you won’t admit that you’re sad about me moving out.”

Kent scoffs. “Yeah, and then moving back in immediately after you and Mikhail and Elijah manage to destroy an entire apartment building.”

“Nah, fuck landlords, we’re buying a house.” Andy leans over and punches Kent’s shoulder. “And it’ll be a block over from you, you big softy. Besides, now you and Scraps can finally move in together and you two can drink wine and watch The Nanny together or whatever the fuck you senior citizens get up to.”

Kent opens his mouth to retort, but Andy reaches over to crank up the stereo, and Kent realizes he doesn’t really have anything more to say, for now. 

He leans back, letting his eyelids drift down and close. Wind sliding over and around him, he lets out a breath he feels he's been holding for ten years. Settling down into the passenger seat, he stretches out his legs, feeling safe, warm, happy. 

They fly down the road, gleaming golden under the streetlights.

**Author's Note:**

> andrew “oops...i did it again” wang!! yeah he won the fucking calder because he’s That Bitch and he got his driver’s license and he’s gay as fuck!! hell yeah!!!
> 
> will he take kent’s place as captain? will kent retire happily and peacefully? will they both live joyful and fulfilling lives? yes, yes, and yes!
> 
> thank you for reading! if you have thoughts, reactions, Opinions, etc, please let me know in the comments!


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